


I Can't Make You Love Me

by dopamine_darling



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Depressed Loki (Marvel), M/M, Pining, stalker vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 09:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dopamine_darling/pseuds/dopamine_darling
Summary: And in the end, it was all worthless.Or:Loki's in love with a mortal man and doesn't know what the hell to do.





	I Can't Make You Love Me

Loki Laufeyson. A trickster god, deity of deceit and lies, given the moniker of 'silver tongue'. His magic was strong and practically untraceable, a helping hand in both war and the art of mischief. The god could lie to anyone and everyone, spinning confusing and yet somehow crystal-clear tales of pure fiction until an unfortunate victim was carefully webbed in a lattice of lies. 

And yet, he cannot lie to himself. 

That damn Stark is in his head.  
  
It's quite ridiculous, a scandal if one might permit the word. His brother, Thor, heir to the throne, falling for a Midgardian woman? Now was a passable stretch. But Loki? God of anti sociality, a second-best-weakling, never-to-be-king? With a mortal man?

Something like that could never be allowed, not just within the high courts of Aesir society, but in his own mind. For it was unlikely, almost laughable to entertain the thought, that the man he'd quite literally thrown out a window would ever love him. Or even love men, although Loki had heard some rather…interesting rumours about Stark’s more youthful adventures. But this was besides the point. Loki wasn’t someone who could ever be loved, not romantically, not platonically, not at all. Ever since he’d become a villain in the world’s eye, ever since he’d given up on being a benign god, ever since he’d let himself be selfish.

A god with such power as Loki possessed wasn’t typically found sulking in a room, but he was currently busying himself with doing just that. He’d broken into a small bedroom, tucked away in forests and snow, the attic room of a log cabin. The inhabitant, presumably a mortal boy judging from the pictures littering the walls, was cramped and untidy, but fortunately warm and oddly cosy. The owners of the house had been absent when he’d entered, and hadn’t come back for at least a week. He was grateful. It gave him time to sit and stew.

Options, Loki thought to himself, sitting crosslegged and back straight to the point of unnaturalness, in the middle of the room on a grubby grey carpet. What are my options in this?

Of course, he knew full well what his (limited) options were. None of them were at all ideal. He could kill Stark, effectively stopping the emotion that welled up far too often,  the pleasantly uncomfortable feeling in his chest, even at times that he wasn’t trying to think about the man. It would be simple, really. Just a quick visit into his tower, a whispered charm or curse, an explosion, a fire, a knife to the throat so he could watch the life bleed out of Anthony’s eyes.

Or he left. Forever. Abandoned Midgard and the other Nine Realms as a waste of time and energy, and headed out into the great beyond. He would be fine, really. Knowhere was supposedly quite nice at this time of the year.

And yet, both of those options would be comparable to tearing his own heart out. Kill the man he was illogically and unwillingly obsessed with, or leave him behind forever. Pathetic. Everything about this was absolutely, bottom of the barrel, lowly slave, disgusting levels of pathetic. Him sat on an ugly thick piece of fabric in the middle of nowhere, alone and pining on Midgard was pathetic.

Loki had never pined for another’s affection in his entire existence, and he was glad of this. A lump in his throat, a pit in his chest, that painful sense of longing, of want. All of it was weak, humanly so, and he couldn’t afford to be weak. Wasting time and becoming distracted, with a mere mortal? Never.

Magic flared in his rage, unbidden and rebellious, flooding from his fingertips and casting a menacing green glow on the otherwise darkened room.

Magic-

Loki tilted his head, considering. Thinking, remembering, weighing his options, being the tactician he was known for. His brother may have been the strong and powerful, but Loki had always,  _always_ been the quick-witted of the pair. Even those who resented him and his ‘magic tricks’ knew it, and his intellect had been the sole defence against some of his old bullies.

Unfortunately, the lonely god was inexperienced with the element of desire. Of juggling matters of the heart and mind,  of a craving for someone so strong all logic was thrown out the window, of the way love plays tricks on one’s intellect, makes a fool of a capable man, plays tricks on the trickster god. He was used to his head being the same as it always was, unaffected and rational in all scenarios no matter the conditions.

So it was that Loki stood up, decision made.

Since he couldn’t have Anthony Stark through normal courting means, surely a bit of magic couldn’t hurt.

/////

If there was a world Loki didn’t want to ever enter, it was one where he didn’t have the convenience of magic quite literally at his fingertips. The god was currently busy placing several spells of avoidance on himself. Invisibility, sound warping, feather-light charms. From an alleyway near Stark Tower, hidden by tall metal bins of garbage, Loki closed his eyes and _reached_ , extending his power to search for the energy of one Tony Stark. After moments of combing the tower, he found the man unmoving in what Loki presumed was his workshop, possibly passed out at a table, judging from the lack of energy in the man’s aura.

His lips quirked upwards at the thought of the man asleep, hair ruffled adorably as he slept, expression peaceful and undisturbed. But he banished the thought. This was a mission, after all, albeit an entirely selfish one.

Previous to his arrival in the dingy alley, Loki had debated whether entering from the main entrance would be better, or flying into the penthouse and then making his way down from the top. Eventually, he’d settled on the penthouse, figuring that there would be less human defence. Loki wasn’t above throwing a few mortals off the tower, but it wouldn’t do to get on Tony’s bad side as it was. Fooling with his technology was more easily fixed.

After making his way into the building with ease, he reached out with his magic once more, probing for the faint aura that he so craved. Even the least magical of mortals had their fair share of unearthly energy, distinctly different from anyone else’s, and it was this he sought out.

The man hadn’t moved from his position, and Loki grinned to himself.  _Too easy._

Several flights of stairs later- he couldn’t afford to use the elevator, of course, and it would be prudent to store his energy in preparation for the grand finale- he made his way down to the workshop and peered through the glass. Anthony was seemingly unconscious, body slumped at a worktable on the left,  head resting on one arm with his back facing the door. Loki made a valiant attempt of pretending that he wasn’t affected by how innocently peaceful Anthony’s slumped figure was, then focused his attention on the keypad.

He almost wished attaining access would be harder. Almost wished that he would’ve needed to put in more than just a few magic sparks worth of effort to get what he wanted. At least he could lie to himself more easily, tell himself he’d earned the prize, rather than slipping in so easily it was like taking candy from a dead baby.

The keypad beeped quietly, and the door swung open with a quiet whoosh of air. Loki stepped into the workshop, and a few silent footsteps later, stood besides the sleeping Tony.

His heart was pounding out of his chest, the sound filling his ears. The lights within the room were dimmed, probably with the help of Stark’s AI. He was once again thankful for his enchantments. Even if Stark was asleep, his technology was apparently always watching. Like Heimdall, Loki thought. Taking advantage of the available space on the rest of the bench, he took a seat on Anthony’s left. The man still hadn’t stirred, breathing slow and even.

Loki was almost uncomfortable with how damn attracted he was to the mortal. Even asleep, eyes closed and drooling slightly, face slack, he was still impossibly, irritatingly, fantastically perfect. Honestly, Loki had never seen a more attractive human or god. He reached out a distracted hand for Anthony’s, only stopping himself when he was centimetres from grazing his hand. Spells couldn’t conceal physical touch, and Loki was already too lucky that Stark had remained sound asleep.

 _You should get on with it,_  the voice in his head muttered. _G_ _et on with it, and make him yours. Once and for all, make him yours forever_. It made sense, and the god was inclined to do so. To mark him, bend his mind to Loki’s will, make Anthony _w_ _orship_ him. Make him _love_ Loki. And oh, it would be so, so easy. The spell was something he’d become familiar with during a horribly boring night on Asgard, alone in the library after Thor had left him to go hunting with his own friends, forgetting once again about his weak little brother. So, in a fit of inspiration, jealousy, and utterly selfish desire, Loki had looked up all the spells and incantations available to make himself more desirable, charismatic, attractive. To make others like him, love him, want him.

He’d never tested them, however, so it was with slight trepidation that he prepared himself to do so for the first time tonight. As confident as he was in his own magical prowess, Loki was hesitant to use such a spell on someone he so admired. Heart pounding, Loki raised both hands, and a gentle glow began to emanate, tendrils of light slowly creeping towards Tony, enveloping him in the luminous green.

He’d only just begun to prepare his mind when in an instant, it all disappeared. His magic seemed to recoil, snapping backwards into him with a physical _push_ , falling away from the sleeping mortal in front of Loki and disappearing back into his skin. A deep chill fell over him, sending shivers down his spine. Loki gasped, in shock, soundlessly, unnoticed. He stood up, stumbling backwards a few steps in his confusion.

_What am I doing wrong?_

_Why can’t I do this?_

Loki knew he was perfectly capable of doing the spell, capable of performing the magic necessary to bend Stark’s will to align with his own. The spell wasn’t impossible, so why couldn’t he do this? What was going wrong?

And abruptly, he realized.

These enchantments he’d memorized long ago weren’t anywhere near good or morally sound. They spoke of dark intentions, were created by those who sought for chaos, for foul abuse, and were to be used only by those desperate and dastardly enough to employ such depraved means. And as evil and manipulative as Loki was, as needy and wanting, he didn’t have any sort of malicious intent with the magic. He didn’t truly want to resort to this option of control, didn’t have the type of selfish greed that the curse required.

Loki loved Anthony too much for that.

At last, he knew he was well and truly, extraordinarily fucked. Stuck in a one-sided love, in the dark and lonely and afraid and just  _exhausted_  with being himself. The worst part? Loki would do anything for him at this point. Bring him the moon, give up his freedom, whatever was requested of him.

Alas, Anthony wouldn’t request anything from him. He’d never ask him for a favour, never tell Loki to do anything besides throwing his own body off a cliff, never say “I love you”. He’d never want Loki, never care about him, never hold him when the only thing that he wanted was some love in his wretched existence.

Moments passed in magically maintained silence as Loki screamed his voice hoarse, any sound made undetectable. His heart slowly shattered, and he fought against the blind urge to send his magic out in a rush. Destroy everything, everyone, in a fit of pure rage and self-hatred, simply because he didn’t  _fucking_ care anymore. No one cared if he was hurting no one would care unless he made them care, hurt them right back, forced everyone to feel the heartache and the frustration, and the pain.

The tears pricked at his eyes, despite the fact that he would not, could not, had not cried for decades and refused to do so now.

Eventually when his throat was raw and he could barely muster a croak, after he’d allowed himself to sink to the floor in pure exhaustion and resentment, it was time.

Time to leave, and to accept that he couldn’t make Anthony love him. Had never been able to, if he was completely honest with himself. And even if, despite all odds, Stark found it in his heart to feel some kind of twisted sympathy for Loki’s anguish, the man couldn’t exactly make his heart feel something it wouldn’t.

Loki let himself out of the lab, enchanted a window to become as dense as water, then leapt out. He transformed into a raven, swooping out into the city.

/////

Towers turned to houses turned to highways turned to fields. Stretches of forest, then wild nothing. The scene blurred, the wind tearing at his wings and his feathers, the ground below fading out into meaningless grey.

He fell, morphing, twisting, plummeting from the sky as he grew, shed his feathers, lost his wings for arms, beak for nose, claws extended into legs and feet. The transformation is swift and smooth, skin appearing in a gradual expansion, feathers returning to take the form of jet black hair.

It was not a long fall. The harsh canopy of branches and leaves catch him, and he landed in a crumpled heap atop a criss-cross of branches. They didn’t hold his weight. He fell again, and again, each time more painful than the last.

His body met the forest floor with a wet thunk, loud in the nothingness and the drizzling rain.

Everything was still.

There was a god, and he lay on the forest floor. Rain soaked his skin, clothes, hair, mercilessly trickling down his back, splashing his face.  
  
The god’s eyes closed.

He does not move.  
  
Loki had never felt so alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave criticism. If anyone's looking to become a beta reader, comment and we can get in touch, since I could use one.
> 
> Edit: Thank you for 500 hits!


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